


At the end

by martha4122



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dying Harry, Emotional, M/M, Missed Opportunity, Sad, True Love, reminiscant maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:54:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/martha4122/pseuds/martha4122
Summary: Out of all the things that could turn against them, time was the only thing destined to. And yet, when it happened, neither could quite fathom the truth of it. Both were broken, and neither felt they were finished. Two boys, in love since forever. One boy near his end, the other grieving a life that never was, and now would never be.





	At the end

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first ever (published) fan fiction, and I would be very happy if you’d like to leave a comment with some feedback. But please be gentle on me, I just write for fun and English is not my native language so there is bound to be some mistakes I didn’t catch in my editing. My ultimate goal is to make you as the reader feel things, and I hope this short text can do that. And be warned, this is meant to be a sad story. Perhaps I will continue it, if there’s an interest.   
> I do not own Harry Potter and make no money off of this.

Time seemed to stop. Then repeat and speed up, all at once. From the moment of waking to the moment of falling asleep, time passed, did not pass, or repeated itself. It was hard to tell. A blur of images was all there was. Flickers of memories, flashes like broken shards of something that once held meaning. Endless unidentified faces, each with their own brand of feigned concern. Sometimes they said nothing, just did their business and left, and sometimes they tried to engage in small talk, often giving up after one too many questions gone unanswered.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, there was a flicker of something. Light catching the movement of something, or someone. Perhaps that happened only once. And although there was no reason to fear, not since the war ended, there was a quickening of pulse followed by hours upon hours of sleeplessness. On the nights when it was worst, the bed stood empty and cold when they arrived, long since abandoned in favour of the cold of the night air. Those nights often followed each other; or perhaps they didn't. Time, again, seemed determined to keep itself a mystery.

The flickers of recognition grew fewer and further between. More medication, more sleepless nights, less lucid moments. If there was anything to do, then surely by now it would be too late? Time kept pulling tricks; one blink and the night had gone, slivers of sunlight slipping through pulled curtains. Another blink and there was darkness yet again. Or was it the same darkness come again like a broken record? There was no telling.

The flurry of faces slowed, at last. One at a time, they crumbled away, until there was only the one remaining . There was sadness in the eyes of this face, sometimes. Or all the time. Seeping through the stilted smiles. All the time. Was it more than once, or was it all the same, just chopped up, sped up, paused and replayed? There was no telling.

Sometimes there were flowers in the night, flowers that had not been there the day before. Or had they? It never made any sense. Not anymore. It hadn't since the war ended, not really. It had all been so clear then, everything that happened. All those people, on the same side. How long ago was it now? It could have been last month, or last year. There was no telling. Either way; when the time finally came, it did not matter anymore. Or had the time come already? There was just no telling.

***

When he first heard of it, he didn't believe it in the slightest. There was no way that the luckiest boy in the world could have gotten so unlucky. But as the reports kept coming, from all over, he had to face the truth of it. The boy he knew would be no more. One wrong move, that was all. It was all, and it was too much. He had been going that way for years, people said, it was just a matter of time. He lost the will to keep on going then, after all those losses, one after the other. That's what they said, all of them. The papers, the friends, the family. Everyone.

He went to visit. He knew he had no right to. It didn't stop him. It never had, after all. He knew that this blow, to his first love and arch nemesis, would be the last one. He could feel it, even before he saw him. When he got there that first time, the room was empty, the bed unmade and the table littered with papers. Before the panic could settle, he caught a glimpse of dark hair and pale arms. He looked like the schoolboy from all those years ago, sitting with his arms over his knees, head bent, eyes staring endlessly forward. But at what, he never knew.

The next time he came, he was in the bed, the papers gone, replaced with a plate of untouched food. He saw those eyes and almost turned around and left. Instead he forced himself to smile, and warmed the plate of food without hassle. There was no chair in the room, as if there weren't ever any visitors besides the caretakers who never sat down, as if everyone had already said their goodbyes and given up. So he sat on the side of the bed, plate settled atop the lap of his first love. The boy's eyes were on him, but they weren't seeing him. He knew this, because there was no flicker of recognition. Not this time, either.

It all went quite fast. A few months, and although he tried to visit every week, sometimes bringing flowers, sometimes a book he would read aloud, he felt after that he should have done more. Time sped up, at the end. From one week to the next, he could barely recognize the person in the bed. The boy who had lived a thousand lifetimes longer than most, but who was not yet old enough for this. He knew him still as his first love. There were so many things he wanted to say, and on the days when he arrived and the boy was asleep, he would say them. He held the hand of his first love and whispered all the things he should have said, before it was too late, and he cried. The last time he came, the room was as empty as that first visit, but the bed was bare, and there were no papers littering the tabletop. There was no forgotten plate of food, and the flowers were gone, too, along with his first true love.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, it would mean a lot to me!


End file.
